


fake it 'til you make it

by Wahmenitu



Category: Daredevil (TV), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Defenders (Marvel TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Figuring Things Out, Gen, Identity Reveal, Michelle Jones being iconic, Panic Attacks, Peter gets hurt, References to Child Abuse, Vigilante Justice, latent dad instincts ACTIVATE, minor gore, ned and mj being good friends, new baby spidey on the scene, only referenced, peter being too good and soft for the world, the big bads are soft for the babies, yes ben still dies sorry friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:00:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22508185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wahmenitu/pseuds/Wahmenitu
Summary: He couldn't do this.  He was standing on the edge of a roof in spandex, for fuck's sake.  He needed to go home.  He needed therapy.  He needed to talk to May and apologize for Ben and he needed to study for a chem test in three days and he needed to needed to needed to-He needed to jump.(Or, Peter.  And becoming Spider-Man.)
Comments: 70
Kudos: 197





	1. the leap of faith

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends!
> 
> i wanted to do this for a while, i'm not sure how many chapters there will be or if this will more be just a thing i add to when it hits me. this story is separate from other, previously established timelines.
> 
> i don't know if Peter will meet team Red in this, i don't know when he will, so that is why there is no Wade or Matt (yet)
> 
> this is not strictly MCU Peter, but that May is the one in my mind. i take things from different versions i've both seen and read about so here is my Peter!

For a couple of weeks, Peter categorized things as "before the spider bite" and "after the spider bite."

Then, it very quickly became "before Ben" and "after Ben."

He had done no research, thought nothing through when he'd started sneaking out at night. May and Ben noticed pretty quickly, and Ben had tried to talk to him. Tried being the operative word, because Peter was scared and confused and ready to lash out at anyone and anything that gave him a funny look, regardless of his size.

He was stronger now.

Faster, smarter, _better_.

All that, and all he could do was stand by while his Uncle's life was taken on a dark, damp street.

He asked May if she wanted him to leave exactly once.

The look she had given him had bordered on violent, before she was wrapping her skinny arms around him and tucking him against her chest.

He was getting taller, he realized, when he had to duck to let her tuck his head under her chin. He didn't want to be taller. He wanted things to go back to the way they were. Before the bite, before Ben, before before before.

But time marched endlessly forwards, with no regard for grief or broken families.

Anxiety used to keep Peter up at night. Anxiety about tests, about bullies, about Ned crushing on some new girl at their school.

Now it was like that anxiety had been dialed to eleven.

Someone dropping a glass two floors up had him rocketing out of bed before he really knew what was happening. A car door slamming outside had him breathing sharply, preparing for a fight or flight response that was unnecessary.

At first, he did homework. Did all the assigned reading, all the extra credit, but pretty quickly he was caught up and bored of it all. Bored, and he still couldn't fucking sleep. He was _so tired._

Alone with his thoughts, the idea started to come back to him.

At first, Peter rejected the vigilante idea. Violently, shut it down before he could give it any consideration. He couldn't do that to May, not after everything she'd already been through. They weren't related, not by blood, but this woman had taken a toddler into her home without a thought when his parents had disappeared. Had petitioned in court to legally adopt him. Had thrown down with his middle school bio teacher when Peter got in trouble for reading ahead of the class and correcting him.

But it crept into the corners in the dead of night. When Peter was staring at the ceiling with dry, itching eyes, it came to him. When his head felt heavier than his body, when rolling out of bed seemed impossible, it burned bright and fierce in his chest, like liquid gold sliding through his limbs until he shook with it.

So, one night, when the idea couldn't be silenced in his head, Peter dragged himself to his computer and googled "Jessica Jones."

The "Jessica Jones" search lead to several others.

Luke Cage.

The Iron Fist.

And Daredevil.

And like, if he was being honest here, none of these people should be out at night fighting crime. Least of all Daredevil. He had to be enhanced to do what he did, but Peter wasn't sure how. All of the footage of him was shaky at best and usually ended in an injury for the Devil. It didn't help that it looked like he was wearing pajamas.

So, if he was gonna do this, he definitely needed a suit.

Peter clicked away from his "vigilante research" and instead moved on to "fabric research."

The hardest decision was going to be his colors.

Scratch that, the hardest thing was going to be sewing the damn thing, but Peter had insomnia, YouTube, and a physical inability to give up a challenging task.

He hadn't felt like a normal teenager in so long, but sitting on the floor of his bedroom and hissing when he pricked his fingers with needles and lost thread and started sewing a glove inside out, he'd never felt closer to his peers.

May asked about the bandaids decorating his fingers and thumbs exactly once. He'd sat down for dinner and she'd given him such a strong eyebrow that he ducked his head, sheepish.

"I um- ripped my backpack. And I am... I wanted to fix it on my own."

"Mmhmm."

"And I am very bad at it."

May laughed, head tipping back with the movement and Peter grinned. It felt... good. It made the apartment feel lighter.

May padded over to him, the spicy scent of her favorite candle washing over him as she smoothed his hair back and smirked down at him, opposite hand propped on her hip. "Get the phone and order pizza. We can afford it, since I'm not buying you a new backpack."

Man, he loved May.

The first version of the suit was bad.

Like, just awful. It was red and gray and fit in all the wrong ways and just didn't... work.

He kept to alleys and back streets, just trying it out. Testing his limits, figuring out what, exactly, he could do and scribbling it all down as he did it. So, sticky hands, strong, kinda fast, a weird sense for danger- it was enough to be getting on with, at least.

He trashed the first suit. Tore it to pieces and deposited it in various dumpsters across the city. The last thing he needed was someone catching a glimpse of the monstrosity and asking questions.

Okay, so maybe he was being a little paranoid.

He kept red, ditched the gray. Picked blue because the fabric was on sale when he brought the site up.

Found a new pattern to follow, measured himself twice, cut once.

Pulled up a new, slower YouTube video.

And got to work.

He had the suit, now he needed a better way to get around the city.

The idea of the web was kind of obvious, but he avoided it at first. There had to be something easier. Something a little less death defying.

But within a week the margins of his notebooks for class were filled with formulas. Ned had glanced over his shoulder one day to read them and wrinkled his nose at it. Ned's thing was computers, and Peter's handwriting was atrocious. Michelle didn't lift her nose from her book.

Still, Peter bought a new notebook on his way home and began to really work on the formula. He kept it under his bed with the suit, safe in the knowledge that May wouldn't go near it.

The actual materials he needed weren't too hard to find. A few checks into dumpsters outside electronics stores, a couple of garage sales, and Peter had the actual devices cobbled together. He had to slip a few chemicals out of school, wracked with guilt and sweating, to create the actual web. But when the first web cartridge shot out a thin line and attached itself to his wall, he threw up his hands in triumph.

Had to resist the urge to scream and cheer, because it was four AM on a Saturday.

Now, he had to test it all out.

He waited a week.

Tried to do as many tests within the confines of his room as he could. It was four days in he realized he was just doing the same tests, over and over again, avoiding the last, obvious test he would need to do.

At three AM on a Sunday morning, Peter pulled on the suit, adjusted the web shooters, and carefully climbed out of his window and onto his fire escape.

He scaled down the wall and set off on a walk, looking for the perfect building. Couldn't do it too close to home, just on principle. He didn't need May finding him dangling from the roof.

Peter didn't know if there was a chill in the air, or if it was the nerves racing up his spine making him shiver. It was dark. The clouds hid the moon, street lamps glowed below and seemed to taunt him as he peered over the edge.

He couldn't do this. He was standing on the edge of a roof in spandex, for fuck's sake. He needed to go home. He needed therapy. He needed to talk to May and apologize for Ben and he needed to study for a chem test in three days and he needed to needed to needed to-

He needed to jump.

He paced backwards to a few yards away.

Bounced on his toes a little, to get the blood flowing.

Nearly chickened out again, before he swallowed. He needed to do this. He needed to take this leap of faith.

Peter threw himself forwards, leaped over the side of the roof.

And he fell.

It was exhilarating.

He yanked his mask off after the first swing. He _needed_ to feel the wind in his hair and on his face. He could feel the grin, could feel the muscles in his cheeks aching as turned in circles in his new roof.

He started laughing.

Because he'd _done_ it. Because he was _doing_ this and because nothing had felt right since Ben had bled out beneath his hands but this?

This was _right_.

Peter _needed_ to do this.

He _had_ to become Spider-Man.


	2. blurry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he was still in fucking trouble. He needed to do something, he needed to get somewhere safe.
> 
> But first, he had to assess the damage.
> 
> Very, very slowly, he straightened his leg, swallowing against the sob of pain that threatened to escape him. He needed to keep fucking quiet, he didn't need anyone coming up here and investigating. If one person asked him if he was okay, he was going to fucking cry.
> 
> (Peter is seriously injured for the first time.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> srry everyone, this one's a little more intense

It wasn't like anything he'd ever experienced before. It was nothing he was prepared for. Nothing he could have prepared for, mentally or physically.

He'd been hurt before, sure. Had to suck up the bruises and scrapes in class the next day. Pretend everything was fine, make up a few excuses. May had asked about it, too, but when he'd promised that he wasn't being bullied or mugged, she'd believed him and let it go. As a rule, Peter did not lie to her. It made everything with Spider-Man that much harder.

It had started with what looked like a regular mugging. The victim had bolted the minute his attacker was distracted by Spider-Man, which was fine. Better, actually, to get out of the line of fire. Sure, he liked when they stuck around to talk to the cops, but you couldn't always win.

But the knife the man had pulled had been... different. Mean and curved and serrated along the edge.

And Peter?

Peter was still getting used to all of this. Still getting used to the Spidey sense zipping up and down his spine, trying to warn him of incoming danger. Still used to his mind telling his body what to do before it could catch up, even with his reflexes. So, when the blade came at him low, he had no time to step out of the way.

Did he scream?

He might have. Everything happened so quickly.

He must have screamed.

Because a strange expression crossed the face of the man with the knife. His sneer faltered, and for just a second, he must have wondered who, exactly he was stabbing. The idea that a kid was behind that mask so obviously wasn't an option, that the mere sound of something so pained, so visceral, had him hesitate. It was the only opening Peter needed.

He threw out a hand, the thwack of the web hitting the wall and the sound of indignation all Peter needed to hear to go scrambling away. The alley was bathed in blue and red light with the arrival of the cops, but Peter barely saw it. All he could focus on was the throb of his thigh, the hot slick of blood filling his suit and dripping out as he dragged himself over the edge of the roof and collapsed, just breathing for a minute.

He listened to the arrest, to the crunch of stray gravel as the cops pulled away, leaving him alone, in blissful silence.

It was so nice. It was so quiet.

He was finally alone, he could finally rest...

He forced his eyes open, realizing that if he fell asleep, he was likely going to be putting himself in a much more dangerous situation.

Fuck.

Peter dragged himself into a sitting position, yanking his mask up to his nose to suck in air through his mouth. He could taste the metallic tang of his own blood in the air. It made his stomach roil. He had to turn his face away, leaning into the crook of his elbow and sucking in to breath as deeply as he could manage, trying to wait until the wave of nausea passed.

It worked.

Well, sort of.

But he was still in fucking trouble. He needed to do something, he needed to get somewhere safe.

But first, he had to assess the damage.

Very, very slowly, he straightened his leg, swallowing against the sob of pain that threatened to escape him. He needed to keep fucking quiet, he didn't need anyone coming up here and investigating. If one person asked him if he was okay, he was going to fucking cry.

He began to breath through his mouth again, slowly slowly slowly turning his head to the wound on his thigh.

He nearly passed out at the sight of it.

It was _awful_.

His suit was dark with his blood. It looked almost wet. He couldn't see bone, but he knew muscle was damaged down there, cut through and shredded like nothing. He gagged, swallowing back bile as his hands shook, hovering above the thigh. His vision blurred. There was a whining noise. It took him five full minutes to realize it was him. He was panicking, breaths coming short and shorter- what was he going to do?

He knew he had _some_ kind of healing factor, but what the hell was he supposed to do? Wait this out? It was already three- May would be up soon for her early shift- she was going to find his bed empty and his window open- she was going to get a call about her dead nephew in spandex-

Fuck, he was really fucking panicking now.

His head snapped up when the roof access door opened, and his vision blurred with his tears as a woman froze in the doorway.

"Please, help me." he croaked, before he really began to sob in earnest.

She was a nurse, she said.

He wasn't the first moron on a roof she had encountered, she said.

Her name was Claire Temple.

She didn't even ask him to remove his mask.

The silent judgement she radiated would have been enough to make him cower if she wasn't so fucking- warm, and nice, and soft.

She had a trash can ready when he puked.

She had a fully stocked first aid kid, with stitches and a few drugs he guessed she probably shouldn't have.

When Claire Temple offered him one, though, he sniffed and shook his head. His mutation was always throwing new information at him. He was singular. He was an anomaly. He had nothing to compare his experiences to- no one to try and help him understand what was happening with his body. Everything he knew about himself was from experience, usually a miserable one. He metabolized drugs much, much quicker than other people. He knew, because two ibuprofen used to have him back on his feet in no time. Now, nothing worked.

There was no point in this kind woman wasting her medicine on him because he had been careless. There were others that could really use it.

"Doesn't work the same." he explained hoarsely, and there was a moment where she looked at him. It wasn't exactly pity. It was something else. Some soft, sad look that spoke of her experience with people. People like him. Enhanced, mutant, menace. Whatever they were calling them that week, it didn't matter to Peter. It wasn't going to stop him from doing this.

"... I won't tell you to stop," Claire began slowly as she finished her last stitch. "I know you won't- that you can't. But you have to be more careful- you're alone out there. There's no one to watch your back, and the police aren't on your side. Not on _our_ side, kid," She sat back, hands on her thighs, still in her scrubs. "You're lucky you ended up on my roof."

"I know."

"You might not be so lucky next time."

"... I know."

"Do you have a phone?"

He did. She punched her number into it and handed it back to him with a sigh. "I told you before. I've... helped people like you before. Just... if you need me, give me a call. I'll do my best to be where you need me to be."

He didn't have the words to thank her, but she seemed to understand nonetheless. She gave him one last gift- a pair of sweatpants to put on over the bottom of his suit. She didn't even bother with the door. She walked to the window and dragged it open before turning to him with a wry look, one hand on the sill of the window and the other on her cocked hip.

"Thank you," he spoke sincerely, trying to convey the enormity of his appreciation as he perched on the sill, favoring his uninjured leg.

"Thank me by taking the day off- don't walk on that more than you have to. Go home, Spiderman."

He obeyed, because there was no way he could get his jeans on that leg. It was a clean wound now, but still swollen and shiny. He must have looked fucking bad, because when May came into his room she took one look at him and smoothed his hair back from his face.

Peter closed his eyes, relishing in her coolness of her hand, of the metal of her wedding ring she still wore. He could have lost her, tonight. He could have passed out and bled out on that roof and May might have spent days wondering where he was and what had happened to him. She would have had to learn from the police and newspapers that her nephew was a vigilante. A law-breaker who took the issues of the city into his own hands with violence and deceit.

He wanted to ask her to stay home with him, but that would risk exposing the wound. She'd ask- she'd demand the truth, and he would have no choice but to tell her. No choice but to spill everything, and as a result, put her in more danger than she already was.

"I'll call the school."

He felt her warm, dry kiss on his forehead, and then she was gone.

Peter stared at the ceiling in the growing light of the day and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat.

All he wanted, in that exact moment, more than anyone in the world, was his uncle.

Ben would have known exactly what to say to him.

He'd been suspicious of what was doing on with Peter already. He had known something was going on- had been trying to get Peter to talk to him- and Peter's twisted anger, he'd died trying to do exactly what Peter was doing now. He'd died, because Peter had been too scared to step up and do what needed to be done.

He wouldn't be that person again.

He refused to stand by and let people me hurt if there was something he could do about it.

So, Spider-Man had to look out for the little guy.

Spider-Man just hoped there was someone looking out for Peter Parker, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claire Temple is the goddess that none of us deserve thank u for coming to my TED talk
> 
> leave a comment please! let me know how you like this fic so far, and feel free to send my any asks or anything over on my tumblr!
> 
> scoutdee.tumblr.com


	3. forthright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned was great. Ned was the best. Definitely his best friend.
> 
> Ned would drop everything to help anyone- for real.
> 
> And right now, Peter really, really, needed Ned's help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this Spidey is not strictly the MCU spiderman, but I do love Michelle and Ned so.

May thought he had anxiety.

Which, like, yeah. He probably did. Definitely did, but he couldn't turn around and tell her why the sudden bout of crippling paranoia plagued him. Couldn't just tell her, actually, May, I almost bled out on a roof a couple of months ago and met a strange nurse who patched me up and gave me her cell phone number. Couldn't say yeah, auntie, I'm experiencing all kinds of scum that New York has to offer every night and I'm the only one standing between them and the innocent.

Well, he _could_ tell her all of that, but he didn't.

Instead, he told her that school was stressful.

It was awesome, because he didn't even have to lie about it. Teachers were starting to make pointed comments about preparedness and SATs and extracurriculars that apparently were a Big Fucking Deal in determining the outcome of your entire life. Like, they went to a STEM school. You were either in AcaDec or you were doing something unworthy of college's time.

At least, that's what it sounded like to Peter.

Michelle seethed about it daily, about the stripping of funding for the art programs at their school. She was on AcaDec herself, but Peter had helped her draft letters to the board and to the principal and occasionally hang a poster they were definitely not supposed to be hanging to make a point. Michelle was hardcore like that and for sure one of the bravest people Peter knew.

She should've been Spider-Man.

And then, wrapped up there right beside them in all of that shit was Ned, who seemed just as content to build figurines as he was to play lookout for Peter and Michelle when they were busy doing something they weren't supposed to.

Ned, who he'd met in first grade when Peter had been crying. Ned had walked over and started crying in solidarity, before he even knew Peter's name or what was wrong. Ned was great. Ned was the best. Definitely his best friend.

Ned would drop everything to help anyone- for real.

And right now, Peter really, really, needed Ned's help.

It started with a night that already wasn't going well for him. He'd been chasing this perp for blocks. It had started to rain, and he was still working with the web in less than optimal conditions. He needed to figure out how it would react to the cold, or the heat of summer- and he needed to fucking fix it so it would work in the rain, too.

Too late, Peter realized where he was.

He heard the perp gasp, squawk, and then he was on the ground, unconscious, his head lolling. And the fucking Devil of Hell's Kitchen was crouched on top of a dumpster, sneering at Peter. Clearly, he found him lacking.

"I'm-"

"Stay out of Hell's Kitchen."

And then, just like that, he was gone. It made him feel fucking terrible.

He was just as much of a vigilante as Daredevil, but apparently the sentiment was not returned.

All he could do was walk away.

People stared as he walked, but he didn't mind so much anymore. It was New York City. He might get a sneer, or an eye roll, but no one gave a shit that some weirdo was walking around in spandex in the middle of the night. This shit was like, their culture.

He cut through an alley, and after a quick glance back and forth, he paused to lean back against the brick of the wall, counting. May called it grounding. Pressing his back against something solid and counting his breaths. Without a thought, he dragged the mask off his face. Tipped his face back to let the rain hit his skin, cooling the flush in his cheeks and heat from his forehead.

It was getting late, and he really needed to get home...

He opened his eyes and turned his head slowly, and stared at the blinking red light from the camera pointed almost directly at him.

It took him a minute to process, staring back at the camera before he yanked his mask back down and groaned.

God _damnit._

A quick examination of the thing and a slightly illegal scope out of the building told him it was just a recording. No one was sitting a room watching this shit live, but they probably had someone run through the footage in the morning to see if anything suspect had happened.

He opened a Note on his phone to jot down the name and address of the building before he was off again. There was only one person who could help him now, and he was for sure gonna flip his shit.

Finding Ned awake so late on a Friday night wasn't unusual. They were, for the most part, responsible students, but both of them were also nerds in a STEM school with little free time that wasn't spent doing homework.

Peter watched him play his game through the window for several minutes, perched upside down on the building, before he sighed, and dug out his own phone again.

**PP:** hey man, u awake?

**NL:** yep, what's up?

**PP:** unlock ur window pls

**NL:**????

He watched Ned stare at his phone for another few seconds, waiting for the bubbles that would indicate Peter was answering. Then, as with most things in life, Ned shrugged and set his phone down, standing to do as Peter asked.

He dragged the window open, frowning at the rain before peering out. "... Peter?"

He sounded like he was trying not to embarrass himself, and then sucked in a strangled breath when Spider-Man, _the_ Spider-Man, edged down to hang off of the building beside his window.

For a minute, all they could do was look at each other. Peter staring through his mask at Ned and Ned staring back at him, begging him to understand, when Ned backed slowly away from the window, letting Peter step in carefully. "You're..."

"Yeah, Ned. I'm- yeah," he pulled his mask off with a sigh, running a hand through his still wet hair as Ned's mouth fell open in shock. Peter fidgeted, twisting the mask between his hands nervously. But he gave Ned a minute. If he'd dropped this on Peter, he wouldn't have anything intelligent say about it for like- a week. At least.

Probably a month.

A month and he'd still say something stupid.

"Is this why you're hurt all the time? Don't act like I haven't noticed- I thought you were joining a gang or something," Ned gave him a critical look.

"Um, yeah. No gangs. Stopped a few but-"

"Peter this is the coolest thing that's ever happened to me," Ned whispered, reverent. He extended his hands, as if to touch the spandex, but halted a foot away, merely waving his hands up and down. "The coolest," he repeated, fierce.

Okay.

So this was happening.

"Ned, I need your help."

"Spider-Man needs my help."

Still with the whispering. Cool cool cool. He could handle this- it was part of the job, right?

Daredevil didn't take selfies with his fans though. He barely got within ten feet of them before he was throwing himself into another fight or rocketing up the side of a building. Tony Stark took selfies, but Bucky Barnes didn't. The Black Widow didn't. Captain America did, but he never looked happy to do it.

So where did that leave a vigilante like Spider-Man?

"No, Ned. _Peter_ needs your help. Pretty urgently. Like- kind of involves the whole secret identity thing."

Ned's clouded expression cleared, replaced by one of confusion. "Are we intimidating someone? I don't think I'm ready for that level of involvement, Peter. I don't even know how to throw a punch-"

" _Ned._ "

"Okay, sorry. What is it?"

"Pretty sure my face got caught on a security camera. I need the footage wiped."

"Oh, that's it?"

Yes, asshole, that was it. Lord God of Coding Ned Leeds, I prostrate myself before you and beg for your assistance. I offer my first born-

Ned was laughing now, going over to his computer as Peter picked himself up off the floor, brushing his suit off with exaggerated gravitas.

"You buy our next model and we have a deal," Ned countered as he clicked his computer awake, while Peter threw himself onto Ned's twin bed.

"Deal."

The Lord God of Coding Ned Leeds had the footage wiped in about fifteen minutes, flashing Peter a thumbs up before he was collapsing beside him, his head beside Peter's feet.

"... man, so you're really Spider-Man."

"Yep."

"For how long?"

"Remember that field trip to OsCorp? Since then."

"... sweet."

Ehn. Could be better. There were lots of things that made him wish it had never happened. But then, all Peter had to do was run through his activities for the night.

He remembered the group of college girls who had flagged him down, begging him to help them find their friend. He had, and one of them had held his hand so tightly, her face so serious even with the streetlights winking off of the glitter on her face. She had said that she was glad someone was out there looking out for people like them- regular people who had their lives ruined every day. But the Avengers couldn't save everyone on street level while also saving the world. It just wasn't feasible.

That was why people like him did what they did. Someone had to look out for the little guy. Whether that was their ten block radius of Hell's Kitchen, or their little borough in Queens or Brooklyn. Maybe they strayed over the lines a little bit- helped pick up each other's slack.

Because it was the right thing to do. In the end, they were all fighting for the same people.

"Yeah, it's pretty sweet," Peter agreed with a slight smile, glancing down towards Ned who was still staring, wide-eyed, at the ceiling. "You're the first person I've told, you know."

Ned's eyes snapped to his, going even wider in shock. "The first?"

"The first," he confirmed. "I haven't even told May yet, but..."

But I knew I could trust you went unspoken.

Ned heard it, like he always did, loud and clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know how you're liking it so far! chapter fics aren't usually my thing.
> 
> scoutdee.tumblr.com


	4. deal with the devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He gets hurt again.
> 
> And this time, no nurse comes to his aid. Instead, Peter meets the Devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is slow going, sorry friends!

For a couple of months, things seem to be getting better.

He gets strict with himself. He does his homework right after school if he doesn't have Decathlon, he hangs around to eat dinner with May, and he goes out after she's gone to bed.

He also has Ned in his ear now, for the beginning of his nights. Ned created a little earpiece for him that functions much like a cell phone, and while Peter swings through the streets they talk about everything and anything. For his safety, he never calls Ned by name. They haven't hit on a codename that's stuck yet, but so far they've used Oracle, Q, and Neo.

It feels silly, calling him that, but he can't imagine it's any worse than calling Peter "Spiderman" through the phone.

Ned usually flags around midnight, and Peter lets him go. At least one of them is getting some decent sleep.

Peter's trying. He really, really is.

But sometimes it's easier to keep to the streets. It's easier than May coming into his room and wiping the tears from his face at three in the morning. Easier than having to spend his money on new sheets, because he's torn his in his sleep while his strength is unchecked. He's terrified now, of waking up from a nightmare and not recognizing May right away.

So even though it feels like he's getting better, he knows he's getting worse.

It's easy to be strict with Peter Parker, but the minute he pulls the mask on all of that self-discipline is gone.

How can Spiderman put a curfew on protecting the lives of the innocent?

How is a chemistry test more important than a nurse being mugged in an alley?

When he's in the mask, he can rationalize any reason for staying out later, longer.

Ned mentioned the word addiction, once.

Their conversations had been stiff and stilted for the rest of that night.

He's pushing it, one night. It's nearing four in the morning when he gets sloppy.

He gets hurt again.

And this time, there's no nurse to find him and help him. This time, when Peter cries out, there's no good samaritan waiting in the shadows.

Instead, Peter meets the Devil.

He knows he's getting farther from Queens when the street names become a little fuzzy. They'd be easier to read if his side wasn't burning and throbbing with every breath.

It's a graze, but it's a bad one. It's already four in the morning. He doesn't want to call Claire and wake her up if she's sleeping. As long as he disinfects it, he can tough this one out, right? He's got a healing factor.

He doesn't realize he's being followed until it's too late. Until the shadow of the Devil creeps over his shoulders and he's hauled back into an alley, thrown against the wall as if he weighs nothing at all.

"You're bleeding all over the Kitchen," the Devil's voice is pitched low, like a growl.

'Daredevil' had sounded silly at first, but there is absolutely nothing funny about the figure looming over him with a lip curled in a snarl.

The only thing he can manage is a short, choked noise.

Even with half of his face covered, Daredevil still manages to look unimpressed.

"Who are you?" he asks instead, and Peter swallows.

"Spiderman," he answers, and he watches the Devil go still.

Has he heard of Spiderman before or something? Names probably get tossed around in their community, sure, but rumor has it the Devil sticks to the Kitchen. It's his territory, and you don't cross the fucking line.

But then Daredevil is jerking back, releasing him as if he's been branded.

Peter's hand returns to his side, clamping over his wound and clenching his teeth against the stab of pain that comes with the movement.

"How old are you?" Daredevil asks, and the growl is gone. He sounds... normal. Average. Not dangerous.

Peter's heart drops, and the Devil's shoulders jerk with the beat of his heart.

"Old enough," he replies vaguely, because Peter has never been able to lie. Not even to strangers threatening him in alleys.

"You're lying," the Devil replies, and a wave of dizziness hits Peter. He doesn't know how the Devil knows, but he doesn't have the energy to argue his point. Maybe it's divine intervention, maybe the Devil can smell the duplicity, all Peter knows is that he doesn't care anymore.

Daredevil puts a finger in his face, the snarl returning. But he's taking a step back and reaching towards his hip. "Don't fucking move," he warns, before he's striding down the alley, bringing a phone to his ear.

Even with his advanced hearing, the Devil speaks too low and too quickly for him to make anything out. He knows the guy on the other end sounds friendly and warm. Kind of like Uncle Ben did, when he and May would spend long hours on the couch together, talking about anything and everything. Happy just to be with each other.

When Peter opens his eyes again, the Devil is back, thumb running back and forth over his knuckles. "I know someone who can help... but I need to hear something from you, first."

"... okay?"

He's too tired to argue and in too much pain to realize the reality of his situation.

He's making a deal with the Devil.

"You don't say his name. Not now, not ever. We'll help you, but after that, you get lost. If you put him in danger, I will put you in the ground, do you understand?"

And yeah, he does.

This part, Peter really, really does understand.

"Yes," he replied, the word coming out more exhausted than he'd intended. But it's okay because the Devil his taking him by the shoulder and steering him down the alley. Every step still hurts, but just the thought of help keeps him going.

Daredevil takes him to a building and hauls him onto the roof. He thinks Daredevil's taking a big risk, showing him where he lives, but the minute Peter gives it any thought, he wouldn't be able to find this place again if he tried.

"Are you starting a club now? Meetings every other Thursday?"

Another man is swimming into view in front of Peter, his hands on his hips and a stern look on his face. His eyes are blue, he's got long blond hair, and he looks... nice. Like the kind of guy you would ask for directions on the street because you just know he'll try and genuinely help you.

"Hi," is all he gets out before the Devil interrupts.

"He's injured, Fogs. Just needs some first aid."

Fogs? Fog? He's frowning now, his eyes moving back and forth between the two masks in front of him before his eyes settle on the Devil.

"What is it?"

"Bullet wound. Graze, but bad. No shrapnel, doesn't need stitches. Needs to be disinfected and wrapped. He's got some kind of healing factor, that's all I can tell."

Whoa, what?

"Okay, let's stick with the table, then. Hey, kiddo? Can you take a seat for me? You don't have to take the mask off, just get your... let me get at your side. You can call me Foggy."

Foggy.

Daredevil steers him towards the table, pushing him to sit in the seat at the small table halfway between the kitchen and the open space of the living room. Foggy's already disappeared behind a sliding door Peter would guess hides the bedroom, and the ease with which he moves through Daredevil's apartment tells him more than he ever expected to know about the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

Foggy is his partner.

Like, _that_ kind of partner.

Peter rolls up the edge of his mask, to try and breath easier as Daredevil stands over him, like he can't decide whether he wants to intimidate or comfort him. He huffs and puffs a lot, shifts from one foot to the other, raises his hands like he wants to take the mask off and drops them.

So Peter goes ahead and breaks the first rule he and Ned came up with for being a vigilante.

He takes his mask off.

" _Jesus,_ " Foggy blurts when he returns, and Peter opens his eyes to see his horrified expression. "Dude, how OLD are you?"

"Sixteen," he tells him, because Daredevil is trusting him with a lot tonight. He might as well offer up some of his own secrets.

Foggy drags the other chair closer and sits down next to Peter, pulling on gloves and giving Peter a sympathetic look.

"I'm not super good at this, so if it hurts, just tell me, okay?"

"Okay," Peter agrees, closing his eyes again before he drags them back open. He's so tired.

"That's it?" Foggy smiles as he preps a wad of cotton. "No macho tough guy act? No 'I live for the pain' spiel?"

"... what?"

"Just what I'm used to," Foggy winks and begins carefully cleaning Peter's wound. It hurts, for sure, but no worse than the actual bullet did. And Foggy's still smiling and looks so damn _nice_ that makes it bearable. He keeps cutting glances over Peter's shoulder, though, and Peter knows he's having a silent conversation with the Devil.

He feels more than hears Daredevil sigh behind him, and soon, he's stepping into Peter's field of vision.

And his mask is off.

He looks...

He looks like someone Peter wouldn't look twice at on the street. A regular guy. Dark hair, dark stubble. And he's not looking at either of them. He's definitely looking _towards_ them, but it's like he can't focus.

He can't focus.

"You're _blind_?" Peter blurts, suddenly feeling a lot more awake as he lifts his cheek from the table. Foggy laughs as he picks up a bandage and peels the film away.

"Could have just told him, man. No need for the dramatics," Foggy smiles in the Devil's direction, and Peter almost misses the flash of a smirk.

"I run around in horns, Fogs. Drama is kind of my thing."

"You gonna keep up with it? Or just go ahead and tell the stray you brought home some real information?"

Peter remains quiet. Foggy's hands are gentle against his skin, securing the bandage in place. Gentle, but confident. He wonders how many times he's done this for Daredevil.

"Matt," the Devil speaks finally, his eyes finding the floor. "My name is Matthew."

"... Peter Parker," he offers as he carefully pulls the top of his suit back up, sliding his arms back into the sleeves.

"Peter," Foggy repeats with a smile. "Try not to get another one of these, yeah? I mean... happy to patch you up, but..."

"But the less you get hurt, the better," Matt finishes, crossing his arms slowly over his chest. Peter wonders if he's trying to hide his tell: the thumb running across his knuckles. But Matt's tipping his head, twisting it back and forth. Foggy slaps his knees as he leans back and turns towards Matt, watching the display with mild interest.

"Not mind readers, buddy- or wait, maybe you are?" he looks towards Peter again in question.

"Uh, no. Sticky hands- no mind reading," Peter explains quickly as he looks at Foggy. What is it that he can see about Matt that Peter can't?

"You need help," Matt speaks, and it takes Peter a moment to realize he's talking to him.

He feels.

Offended?

Or he would, if Matt wasn't so painfully, obviously right.

"I'm handling it," he tries to keep his voice level. Neither of the men across from him look like they believe it for a second.

"You're not," Matt replies, kicking through Peter's fragile ego and playing hop scotch on them. "You need training- you need to know how to incapacitate someone with a gun. Quickly and easily. Maximum damage to the target with minimal risk to yourself."

That sounded kind of scary.

Foggy watches Matt for a moment before he turns to look at Peter.

"Look, I don't usually... jive with the whole vigilante thing. I let Matt do what he does because he needs it and this neighborhood needs him. But he has a point, Peter," Foggy leans back in his seat, and the look in his eyes makes Peter uncomfortable.

He has to look away.

Because while there's pride there, in what Matt does and essentially in what Peter does, there's something else, too.

There's the knowledge that no matter what Foggy does or does not do, he can't stop Matt from giving his blood for this city. And he can't stop Peter from doing the same thing. Peter is careening down a path at eighty miles and hour and he's looking at what it means for him. A partner who is up at four in the morning, ready with first aid. Someone who doesn't question when you bring a stranger in a mask home with you for medical attention.

Is this what his future is going to look like?

"I can teach you," Matt continues, like it pains him. "If it keeps you from bleeding across my neighborhood," he adds brusquely. No emotion for the Devil. Must not compute.

Peter looks back towards Matt, and after a moment, he takes a breath.

"When do we start?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wahmenitu.tumblr.com
> 
> stay inside and stay safe, y'all!
> 
> WASH YO HANDS


	5. like 67% sure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they read her name on news blogs and in scientific journals in years to come, they could claim they had gone to school with her. That they’d competed with her on an AcaDec team. They could claim her as a friend, with a stretch, but she wouldn’t remember most of them.
> 
> Except for Peter fucking Parker.
> 
> Fuck that white boy and everything he stood for.
> 
> She would learn soon enough, though.
> 
> Everything that Peter Parker stood for, apparently, was a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi I'm back! work is crazy so any posting will be EXTREMELY sporadic, I apologize!
> 
> thank you to the Team Red discord server and deniigiq specifically for challenging me to write in a new POV!

They called her quiet.

They called her weird.

They said she was a new wave hippie. She was an entitled gen z’er who didn’t know how good she had it.

Snowflake. Brat.

Michelle had heard it all growing up with the wonderful world wide web in her pocket. It didn’t matter. People who didn’t understand didn’t matter to her. She was going to pave the way for other women of color working in the STEM field. That’s what mattered. She didn’t have time to make friendships to last. Her fellow classmates were… fine.

They were just.

Fine.

She had much more important things to worry about, like AcaDec and extra-curriculars to build a stellar resume. Internships and volunteer work. She had books to read and protest signs to make. She was totally cool sliding through the background, unnoticed and dismissed by her peers. It wasn’t some sad reality that she lived in, she liked it that way. There were girls she could hang out with if she wanted to. She had teammates and a family that took an active interest in her when she allowed it. She preferred to remain that way.

Anonymous.

Un-attached.

When they read her name on news blogs in years to come, they could claim they had gone to school with her. That they’d competed with her on an AcaDec team. They could claim her as a friend, with a stretch, but she wouldn’t remember most of them.

Except for Peter fucking Parker.

Fuck that white boy and everything he stood for.

Which, apparently, was a lot.

  
  
  
  
  


No matter how cutting her gaze was, how flat she could make her expression, there didn’t seem to be anything stopping that dopey smile from crossing his face when he handed her a worksheet, or ran up to her locker after class with her forgotten jacket.

It wasn’t even that he was _trying_ to get anywhere with her. He was just. Like that.

He was nice.

If there was anything that proved the existence of God and God's twisted sense of humor, it was the fucked up way He or She treated nice people like Peter Parker.

He got weird in their freshman year. They went on a field trip and he got quiet. Sometimes he would jerk at his desk in class, like something invisible had hit him.

Sometimes he would get up from the lunchroom and just leave, shoulders drawn up to his ears like he was trying to retract into a shell. At first, she thought maybe he had some kind of sensory processing thing. Maybe he was off his meds, or they weren’t working anymore. Or maybe he’d always been like that, and she’d only just started noticing Peter Parker and his dumb smiles.

He was having a hard time, but midterms were coming up and everyone was having a hard time. There were plenty of resources he could reach out to for help if he really wanted to, and Michelle had more important things to do and more important tests to study for instead of spending her time worrying about Peter fucking Parker.

They got through midterms, and then, his uncle was dead.

For Michelle, school had been one long, drawn out day that chugged endlessly into a unit and further into a semester. First, second, third grade, it didn’t matter. There was school and then there were summer projects and then they were back to school. She’d thought it might be a little different, getting into Midtown, but it wasn’t. There were still papers piled on top of projects, Midtown just had the added addition of a dope-ass library and computer lab.

But then, some shit went down and her Midtown experience was pretty harshly divided into before-Ben and after-Ben.

As a rule, Michelle didn’t go out of her way to express sympathies. Not because she didn’t care, but because she didn’t want to be just another face telling someone how sorry they were for their loss and how the dead person was in a better place.

There was no better place to be than with your family, and obviously everyone was sorry that your relative had died.

But she made it a point to corner Peter after school one day, feet spread as if to brace herself, fingers curled tightly around the canvas strap of her bag.

“Parker.”

He looked up from his backpack.

He looked… strange. His jaw seemed sharper, but his cheeks weren’t really sunken in. Not like he hadn’t been eating. His shoulders seemed broader under his shirt, and the way he stood from his crouch was different, too. Effortless under the weight of his bursting backpack. One fluid motion he didn’t seem to notice as he rolled his shoulders to adjust the straps.

“Hey, MJ.”

She swallowed. This shit was ridiculously hard, and while she didn’t think she owed him anything, she felt like… maybe Parker deserved a little extra kindness. Even from her.

“I just wanted to say… about your uncle,” she hesitated. Everything seemed so hollow, but he was smiling at her. Patient and a little sad. “If you need something- school wise- I can probably help. If you need it.”

“Thanks, MJ,” he dipped his head, and then he was walking away.

And there. She’d done it.

  
She’d been a decent fucking person and she didn’t have to worry about Peter Parker and everything hanging unsaid around them.

And when did she move from Michelle to MJ?

  
  
  
  
  


They hit sophomore year and things got worse. If MJ hadn’t met May previously at a school function, she’d be worried about Peter’s home life.

He started showing up to school with bruises in strange places. Mottling his wrists when he didn’t pull his shirt down fast enough. Darkening his cheek where he clearly didn’t really know how to use cover-up properly.

But his grades were improving, and while he was still jittery in class, still flinched at things she couldn’t see or hear, Peter seemed to be getting better. He hunched over at the lunch table with Ned, whispering furiously and holding out their phones for videos for the other to watch.

Occasionally, she joined them, but for the most part she kept to herself. It was easier to keep an eye on him that way. The last thing she needed was for Peter to catch her staring and get any fresh ideas.

He was hiding something, obviously.

But they were all also sixteen year olds in a STEM school. Everyone was hiding something.

She was just annoyed that somewhere along the way, she’d started to give a shit about Peter Parker’s secrets.

  
  
  
  
  


The papers went crazy when the first picture of them together came out.

The Spider and the Devil.

Allegedly working to take over New York.

Yeah, right.

Anyone who spent a night out knew that the Devil stayed in the Kitchen. Wouldn’t set a toe out of the block unless he heard the Punisher was around. Only then would you catch him doin’ his dance outside of his territory.

Spiderman was pretty new, though.

And Michelle didn’t know who he thought he was fooling, when he was so obviously around their age.

No self-respecting adult vigilante would stop for snap chats with fans.

Something was different about Peter again, though.

He was standing taller. He met people’s gaze evenly in the halls, instead of letting his eyes skip around them as they spoke. He came in with less bruises. He put on more muscle.

And sometimes.

_Sometimes_ there was something else there. Someone would drop a textbook in the hall, or they would be asked to drag the gym mats around to new positions and the slap of the mat hitting the ground would trigger something in Peter. She’d seen it.

His eyebrows would draw together and instead of flinching, like everyone else, his stance would loosen.

Feet spread, shoulders hunched, his hands loose at his sides.

Like he was ready to fight.

Michelle had seen the Devil fight exactly once, and she’d seen that same stillness. The calm before the storm.

And oh, she thought, as she shut her book slowly.

_Oh._

  
  
  
  
  


She kept it to herself until their final exams were done.

She had studying to do, and she wanted to be sure before she said a word, first.

But there he was, sitting with Ned at lunch every day and speaking lowly about his illicit activities from the previous night. She had to hand it to him. As fast and loose as he was playing it with his own identity, she only ever heard him refer to Daredevil as ‘DD.’

The night before, Spiderman had caught a bus before it could careen over the side of a bridge. The night before that, a shipping container full of known human traffickers had been left on the doorstep of the police station, sticky note slapped against the side marking it as a delivery from their ‘Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman.’

It was hard to believe someone like Peter Parker could put on a mask and risk his life every night, but it was also… not.

Because Peter had been the one to stand up at his desk on their first day of freshman year and challenge a professor for complaining about another student’s name. Michelle had been right there with him, sure, but Peter had been so immediately ready to throw his weight in behind another student he didn’t even know.

And there had been that moment before midterms where Cindy had burst into tears in the library.

While Liz had sat beside her and soothed her, Peter had jogged from the room to find water and a snack, smiling that dumb smile at Cindy and telling her how his aunt always had him eat something when he was stressed. He wasn’t sure it would help, really, but it was worth a shot.

It was unbelievable that people like Peter Parker existed in the world, especially after everything that had been thrown at him.

But there he was on her tv every night, walking drunk girls home and stopping muggings left and right. 

And as she lay in bed, staring at her ceiling and contemplating everything from vigilantes to college applications, she reached for her phone.

**MJ:** so… why red and blue?

**PP:** asdfhjkl

  
 **PP:** pls call me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am soft for Michelle Jones
> 
> wahmenitu.tumblr.com


	6. lifeboat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But really, when he stopped to give it any more thought, there had never really been an option of not telling May.
> 
> They didn't keep secrets. Not anymore. Not since Ben.
> 
> (Or, May finds out.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting this before i crawl back into my work den.
> 
> wash your hands.

He'd known it was going to happen, eventually.

Foggy had been pressing him about it for weeks. The sooner May knew, the sooner Peter would know where he stood with her. And the sooner he could stop sneaking around and seeing that sad look in her eyes when she knew he was lying to her face.

He'd even talked to Matt about it.

Sort of.

The only issue had been that Matt seemed to have a sixth sense for when someone- anyone, really,- wanted to talk to him about _feelings_ , and would avoid them like the plague. Or like, Satan. Or whatever fruit or strange food Matt had denounced for the week. The week Peter caught him it had been moon pies, one of Peter's personal favorites.

It wasn't about how real the ingredients were, _Matthew_ , it was about the fact that they were called moon pies.

Peter had been surprised to find Matt largely in agreement with Foggy. Matt Murdock held onto his double life with bloody, clenched fists, and he fought tooth and nail to keep it that way, even if it meant playing helpless blind guy when all he really wanted to do was beat the shit out of someone.

Which was often.

"My secret, and the people I kept it from, almost ruined my life, Peter," Matt had confided in a rare moment of seriousness. He had reached out, grasping the back of Peter's neck and squeezing as he tried to find Peter's eyes with his own. "The people you love- and the people who love you- they'll get it. They may not like what we do, or truly understand why we do it. But they'll understand that this? This life that we've chosen? We _need_ it, Peter... we need it just as much as those people on the street need us. The longer you wait to tell your aunt, the worse it's going to be... I'm sorry. I wish I had better advice."

And then he was gone, leaving Peter with a decision in his hands and his gut twisting beneath his suit.

But really, when he stopped to give it any more thought, there had never really been an option of _not_ telling May.

They didn't keep secrets. Not anymore. Not since Ben.

So he went home early, and he crawled in through his window, and he pulled his mask off and walked across his bedroom and he opened the door to face May, where she was sitting on the couch, her latest mangled cross-stitch project in hand.

At first, she only stared.

Looked Peter up and down, took in the suit. He could see the gears turning in her mind- trying to come up with any rational explanation except for the truth. _Anything_ to justify why Peter would be standing in front of her wearing spandex, with his mask hanging from his hand. Anything to grab on to- to cling to- that would mean that this was some messed up joke and that no, her nephew wasn't really Spiderman, April Fool's, May!

But when she closed her eyes and set her needle on the coffee table, he knew that she understood what he was trying to tell her.

She stood calmly, and walked into her room.

When she came back out, she had on her shoes and was carrying her purse.

"I'm going to take a walk," she spoke in a tone he hadn't heard since Ben. A voice that was fighting to keep steady, a woman trying to keep her world together. "When I get back, we're going to have a conversation about this. I'm taking my phone with me."

She gave him one last thing, a kiss on his head, before she picked up her keys and walked out the door.

He felt numb.

There was nothing to do but wait. She'd given him the courtesy of not snapping or exploding, the least he could do was give her time to think.

He went through his normal nightly motions. He stripped out of the suit and took a shower. He dressed in the softest sweatpants he owned: a pair of joggers swiped from MJ. He pulled on one of Ben's old t-shirts, and he sat down at his desk to start on his homework.

Normally by now, he'd have been ravenous. But all he could feel was the rock sitting in his stomach, weighed down by the disappointment he was sure he'd read in May's expression. He briefly entertained the idea of texting Matt or Foggy, but couldn't bring himself to pick up his phone. Too terrified by the irrational thought he'd pick it up to read a text from May, asking him to get his things and be out of the apartment by the time she got back.

He knew she wouldn't do that. He _knew_ that, but there was the voice in the back of his mind chanting.

_Worthless, liar, dangerous, burden_.

He'd heard it all and worse nearly a year ago, when Ben died.

He'd thought he was getting better.

If people like us got better, Matt had said once, there wouldn't be such a black market on colored kevlar.

Well-adjusted people didn't become vigilantes, he'd told him.

Matt was right.

It felt like hours, but in reality May was only gone for a little over forty-five minutes.

The minute Peter heard the key in the lock, he was out of his chair and in his doorway, watching anxiously as May stepped inside and closed the door with her hip, clicking the deadbolt into place.

"Sit," she gestured to the couch, so Peter sat.

May took her time, going to her room to kick her shoes off and put her purse away, walking back out while winding her hair back into a loose bun, stray hairs escaping by her hairline.

When she sat down, Peter thought he might break, but then her hands were in his, squeezing. Squeezing him back together, holding him at the seams.

"When?" May asked, watching him. He knew what she was asking.

"... the OsCorp field trip, sophomore year. I was sick afterwards."

"I remember."

"A spider bit me there- I haven't always been like... like this. And... a couple of months after Ben is when I started- when I _made_ Spiderman."

"Why?"

"Because, May," he began, and he heard his voice crack. "Because I need to. I can- I can _hear_ them all. I hear them screaming every night for help. And I have the power to _do_ something about it. I can't- I can't just sit by and let it happen when I _know_ I can make a difference. They _need_ me in this mask, May."

"Okay, so people need you," May hushed him gently with a hand on his cheek, and when Peter blinked, he could see her eyes swimming. "But why, Peter? Why _you_?"

He swallowed.

That was the million dollar question, wasn't it?

People needed him, sure. Just like people needed Daredevil, and the Avengers. There were things in the world now that normal people couldn't fight. But well-adjusted people didn't become vigilantes. They didn't feel the desperation to make a difference like he and Matt did. The desire to set yourself apart from the rest not for fame or recognition, but because something within you made you do it.

Peter was a mutant, now, but Matt wasn't. Not really.

If strange things had never given either of them an edge over the ordinary, would they still have created these personas?

If Peter had never been bitten, would Spiderman still have come to be?

For once, the answer was perfectly clear to him. He squeezed May's hand and took a deep breath, pulling the pieces of himself back together.

Yes.

There would always have been a Spiderman.

"Because," he began again, steadier as he lifted his eyes to meet hers again. "Because with great power, comes great responsibility."

"Oh, Peter."

Nothing else in the world mattered when May's arms came around him then.

He was crying into her shoulder, smoothing her hand across his back as she hushed and rocked him from side to side gently.

"You are so brave, Peter. You are so, so brave... and you are doing so much good."

Not everyone thought that. He'd seen the headlines in the papers at the bodega. Most of his school was pretty pro-vigilante, but he heard some of the seniors scoffing at 'taking the law into your own hands.' As if anyone but them, white and privileged, could rely on cops.

"I know the rest of the world can't say it, so I'm going to. You are so good, Peter. You are so, so good," May whispered to him, and she sounded like she had after Ben had died. Like it was she and him against the world. Fierce and strong and like she loved him, so, so much.

"I love you so much. Nothing that you do could stop that, do you understand?"

Yes, May.

He understood that now.

When he went out the next night, it was with May's blessing and a promise to be in home and in bed by one. It was a school night, after all.

He felt lighter. He threw out his web without a thought, arced through the air with his eyes closed and the wind whistling against his mask.

He was lighter, because he was starting to let people help carry his secrets.

He had Matt, who knew exactly what he was going through and who could still throw him to the ground, super-strength or not.

He had Foggy, who had powers of his own to see through life's bullshit and tell him exactly what he needed to hear.

He had Ned, who chattered in his ear nightly and listened to police scanners with him.

He had MJ, who scoffed at newspapers and sent anonymous thought-pieces on vigilante justice to news stations and magazines.

And now he had May, who held him and accepted him- every bit of him- without question.

And that was more than enough for him.

He couldn't ask for anything more, he smiled beneath his mask when he landed and straightened from his crouch. He just had this feeling- like everything was going to be okay.

"Oh my god," the voice spoke from behind him, and Peter spun on his heel.

Tall, built like a fucking tank. Covered from head to toe in red and black leather, with two swords strapped across his back and a gun at his thigh.

Deadpool.

The white suit eyes went wide as Deadpool's hands came up, smacking against his cheeks as he took a rattling breath.

"You're _Spiderman,_ " he squealed.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls pls comment if you liked it, it really means a lot to me and is big motivation for keeping this story going.
> 
> also, pls pls wash your hands.
> 
> scoutdee.tumblr.com


	7. four player game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're Spiderman," he squealed.
> 
> Fuck.
> 
> -
> 
> When faced with two worst case scenarios walking up, what did you do?
> 
> Apparently, some dormant part of Peter's mind decided that the answer to that question was: phone a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enter: Deadpool.
> 
> Challenger approaching: the Punisher.

_"You're Spiderman," he squealed._

_Fuck._

Peter was an honest to God superhero now.

Like, people recognized him on the street.

Daredevil had heard of him _before_ he'd met him as Peter Parker.

He was a hero. A vigilante, a lawless heathen, he'd read and heard it all.

So naturally, as a hero slash vigilante, Peter did what he imagined anyone would do when they came face to face with the most infamous assassin in the world.

He _fucking booked it._

He spun on his heel, threw out a line of web, and hauled himself into the air. He could hear Deadpool calling out behind him, but he paid it zero attention.

Fuck all of that.

He was not touching that with a ten foot pole.

There were a few things that were common knowledge about certain vigilantes. The thing was, once you started making a name for yourself, word got around.

Spiderman and Daredevil did not kill. Spidey was the guy who walked drunk girls home. Daredevil was the one who beat the shit out of the guys that tried to follow them. Jessica Jones would take your case if it interested her, _only_. Try to argue and she'd put you through a wall nine times outta ten. The Iron Fist was freakishly friendly, and didn't seem to get the dark and brooding memo from the rest of their little community.

Peter knew that Deadpool was an assassin. The best in the biz, from what he heard. If you were on his list, you were dead. End of story, do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars.

Peter had heard from _nobody_ how fucking _fast_ Deadpool was.

He had known, just on sight, that Deadpool, like DD, was at the peak of physical fitness. He hauled ass across rooftops and up fire escapes to keep up with Peter, occasionally calling out "Just want an autograph, buddy!" Peter was emphatically _not fucking with that_. Shit was going well for him, he'd just gotten through the ordeal of telling May about his illicit nighttime activities, and the last thing he needed was some news station catching sight of a world renowned assassin hanging around Spiderman. The press alone would rip him to shreds, but it would be _nothing_ compared to May Parker's stare of disappointment.

_Nothing_.

But Deadpool was fucking fast, and staying on Peter's ass to the point that he started spending more time looking behind him at his pursuer than he spent looking ahead.

Big mistake.

Then again, could he be _blamed_?

Who the hell else was hanging out on a roof at one in the morning.

Peter collided, full-force, with the second biggest man he had ever seen in his life. Second only to the asshole who was pulling himself over the edge of the roof, swearing up a storm. But he went still and silent in the same moment that Peter did, because when Peter straightened, he was face to face with black kevlar spray painted white.

He was staring into the eyes of the Punisher's skull-painted vest.

Fuck.

He was really going to find some kind of research facility to do tests on his shit luck.

Like, this shit had to be _documented._ It was getting _ridiculous_.

Frank Castle's eyes were dark and there was a cut across the bridge of his nose. He was every bit as terrifying and dangerous looking as newspapers and newscasters described him. No one had heard a thing about the Punisher for nearly a year. He had been presumed dead until he'd popped back up in New York three months ago. Ever since then, he tended to dominate the nightly news. Pictures and tip hotlines were plastered all across the city, promising rewards of up to $100,000. And here Peter was, with his head barely reaching the top of the skull on the vest, staring at one of the most wanted men in America.

Behind him, one of the most wanted men in the world.

Spiderman was a hero, but he wasn't a miracle worker.

"Sup, Francis?"

Oh god, Deadpool knew him. Oh god, he was going to die on this roof.

"Hell are you doing with Spiderman, Wilson?"

Wilson? Deadpool's name was Wilson?

"Trying to tell him how much I admire the work- but I definitely had the red suit going on first. I want credit for that, Spidey."

The only sound Peter could manage was a throaty, garbled laugh. Like a dying animal.

Frank gave him a strange look, before shrugging to adjust the strap over his shoulder, casting his eyes back towards Deadpool. Clearly, the appearance of Spiderman was classified as a non-issue to him. Peter would have been insulted if he wasn't so busy trying not to just die right there.

"Ain't he runnin' around helping arrest people like us? You really wanna deal with that shit, Wade, be my guest," Castle scoffed. "I got shit to do tonight, stay outta my way," he added, taking a step towards Peter just as Deadpool did the same.

When faced with two worst case scenarios walking up, what did you do?

Apparently, some dormant part of Peter's mind decided that the answer to that question was: phone a friend.

He screwed his eyes shut, tipped his head back, and screamed.

"DAREDEVIL!"

He knew the moment the Punisher and Deadpool got hands on him he was fucked. He had super strength, but he was still sixteen years old and minuscule compared to them. He was fucked, he was so, so, so fucked. Sorry, May. Sorry, Ben. Sorry, Ned and MJ. And sorry-

Peter cracked an eye slowly when it had been a full ten seconds and he hadn't felt a thing. Cracked the other when he saw that the Punisher had frozen in place, as had Deadpool. Castle's expression was unreadable, whereas Wade Wilson's mask showed visible shock. Peter swallowed as his head turned slowly, back and forth between the both of them. "What?" he croaked.

Castle and Wilson both chanced a glance at each other, some unspoken conversation passing between them in an instant. They both looked back to Peter, and the Punisher was the first to speak.

"How _old_ are you?"

"Nineteen," Peter lied immediately, earning a scoff from Wade Wilson and a hand of dismissal from Frank Castle.

"Yeah, n' I'm twenty-three. How fucking old are you?" Frank repeated, almost like a threat. But he seemed to be holding himself back now, his shoulders dropping and his hands going to the straps of his vest. He was trying to lean out of Peter's space without making it obvious. He was trying not to intimidate him.

"Old enough," was all Peter offered, when he heard the scrape of boots on brick to their left.

Frank turned, and his demeanor changed again. It was as if all of the threat left him, because his hands dropped and went loose at his sides and he was already rolling his eyes. "Red."

"Frank," Matt greeted as he strode towards them, moving directly towards Peter. "It's been a while."

"He underage, Red? You get him into this shit?"

"He found me, actually. He was already well into it by the time we became acquainted. Wade," he tipped his head in Deadpool's direction, and Peter's brain short-circuited.

Matt and Wade knew each other? Well enough to be on a first name basis? Matt was like, friends with two assassins???

Did Foggy know?

Matt seemed to sense Peter's distress, a strong hand coming to his shoulder. Its presence was grounding, and Peter found himself taking slower, deeper breaths as he brought himself back to the situation at hand. "Okay, so," he began, but didn't know how to continue. Instead, he looked up to Matt, hoping that Matt wouldn't need sight to understand the quiet, desperate question Peter was trying to convey to him.

Could he trust these people?

Matt tipped his head one way and then the other, his jaw shifting beneath his skin as he thought.

"They wouldn't give you away, Spidey," he decided after a moment, squeezing Peter's shoulder, "But it's your decision."

And like, Peter for sure trusted Matt without question, but he was still a sixteen year old kid standing in front of two assassins who were staring him down.

He might have decided against it, against telling these people who he was and adding them to his growing network of support. If he had had time to really think it through.

But then the Spidey-sense flared, hot and buzzing up his spine, and Matt went rigid, almost like he could feel it, too.

Deadpool and the Punisher were just realizing something was wrong when the building across the street exploded.

Peter had just enough time to see Deadpool and the Punisher make dives for him and Matt when the force hit them, and everything went dark.

He knew he wasn't out long at all, because when he came to, Deadpool and the Punisher were still staggering around and coughing, waving smoke and ashes away with their hands and squinting towards the building across the street. Matt was stiff on the ground, forehead pressed to the concrete beneath him and his hands curled into shaking fists as he tried to breath through the acrid air threatening to choke them all. Peter reached towards him, hoping to help, but a calloused hand caught his wrist.

"Don't," Frank warned, his voice rough and full of smoke, "he can't hear shit right now, probably. That was big for senses like his- give it a minute."

Peter drew his hand back slowly, and he knew Frank could read the shock on his face even through his mask.

"Red and I got a kind of history- but I don't wish the guy any harm. Stay down, kid. Let us check this out," he warned, before stepping away, stalking towards the edge. What Peter had imagined would be heavy footfalls immediately became a hunter's tread. Deadpool, who had seemed so loud and proud only moments ago, was dead silent as he followed Frank Castle towards the edge with a sword drawn.

Matt's fists curled and uncurled slowly as he fought to try and orient himself. Peter could only stay low beside him and say his name softly, hoping it would get through. Jesus, he hoped they could get through to Foggy before he caught wind of the explosion.

The sound of gunshots behind him pulled him from his worries.

Castle was looking calmly through his scope. Brutal, terrifying efficiency.

Wade had only a pistol, standing tall and firing indiscriminately across the street. Unpredictable and absolutely fearless.

Peter wasn't sure which was scarier.

"Peter?"

Peter felt the gravel scrape beneath him as he shifted in Matt's direction.

"I'm here- right here, Matt," Peter pitched his voice low. He wasn't sure how much damage Matt's ear drums had taken. He hoped for none.

Matt reached for his hand. Too far to the left, but close enough that some of the anxiety in Peter's chest eased.

"Aw, shit," Wade complained.

And the anxiety was back.

"Damn Russians," Frank muttered as he and Wade dropped like stones, taking cover behind the lip of stone as bullets began to fly behind and above them.

"What's happening?" Matt questioned, Peter following suit and keeping low as Wade and Frank ducked their way towards them.

"Jack shit is happening, we're getting you two the hell outta here and you're gonna let us take care of this one, Red," was Frank's reply as he hauled Peter to his feet, and Wade pulled Matt up.

"Chop chop, lover boy, we're moving," Deadpool sang, drawing one of Matt's hands to the strap of his sword. Matt wrapped a fist around it without question, and Peter blinked in surprise.

Matt really _did_ trust these two.

"Eyes up, kid. You got some kinda sense for shit, right? Watch my six," Frank gave him a rough pat on the shoulder, before bringing his gun up. Together, the four of them made their way out of the area.

Frank Castle took them on a winding route through the city, all back alleys and hopped fences. Peter, sixteen years old and full of mutated energy, kept up easily, but he could tell that Matt was beginning to flag after five miles. Ordinarily, Daredevil went hard and fast all night, every night. But the explosion had clearly taken a lot out of him. He was ready to say something- to ask for a break on Matt's behalf, when Peter recognized one of the side streets.

They were in Hell's Kitchen.

Frank Castle was taking Matt home, and he was making sure no one saw him doing it.

Peter kept his mouth shut.

Foggy's expression when he opened the door to their motley crew was like nothing Peter had ever seen. Worry, for Matt, definitely. Anger there, because Peter knew that the Punisher had a history with Nelson and Murdock. Anyone who had watched the news a year ago knew that. And something else Peter wouldn't understand until years later. MJ would call it something like gratitude, but there was no word for the understanding that your partner, your person, would have died one night if not for the guy who had hauled his ass home.

"Fogs?" Matt reached for his face immediately, and Foggy took Matt's wrists to guide them to his cheeks.

"Thank you Frank, Wade. Spidey, you okay?"

"I'm okay," Peter promised, and Foggy nodded as he guided Matt out of the hallway.

"Call me tomorrow. Tell me everything, will you?" he directed the question towards Peter, looking over his shoulder as he helped Matt inside.

"Sure, Foggy."

"Good night," Foggy replied with a tip of his head, before he was swinging the door shut and leaving Peter alone in the hallway between two assassins who had both saved his and Matt's lives. Like, easily.

Awkward.

This whole vigilante thing was complicated.

But there were some things you experienced with other people that changed and redefined your relationships with them. Peter turned to the two men in front of him and pulled his mask off in one smooth movement.

Frank Castle frowned.

Deadpool's mask was unreadable.

"My name is Peter Parker... thank you, for helping us tonight. I don't think I could have gotten Matt out of there on my own."

Frank was still frowning, but he jerked his head in a nod. "Don't worry about it, kid... just do me a favor and stay safe," he stepped back. He only glanced at Wade once before he was gone, disappearing with a silent tread down the stairs. Peter didn't think he'd be seeing much of him. Frank Castle was the kind of guy that was never going to be found if he didn't want to be.

Wade's hands found his hips, and he blew out a quiet breath as he rolled his head from one side to the other. There was no telling what he was thinking. Deadpool was batshit crazy and off his fucking rocker, anyone would tell you. He seemed to be trying to decide something.

"Listen," he finally spoke, "I'm gonna be in town a while, kid. You're runnin' with Double D, that's cool. He's a hardass motherfucker, but he's got the training to back it up. You don't. You're sixteen, Pete."

"I know," he looked down, fist tightening in his mask. "I know, I'm young. But I can't do _nothing_ , Wade. Not when I know the kinds of things that I _can_ do."

Wade threw his hands up, exasperation clear in every line of his body.

"Jesus, fuck, you're just as self-righteous as Red," Wade groaned, head falling back. "Fine, listen up. I'm gonna give you my phone number. You're gonna text me when your next meet up with Red is. And I'm gonna teach you how to put him on his ass."

Yeah, right.

Hilarious.

"I'm serious, Petey."

Wait, for real?

"He ain't pinned me yet. And you got super strength, if I had to guess."

"I do."

"So you wanna be able to say you pinned the Devil, or nah?"

He really, really did.

“Spiderman, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave comments letting me know how you liked this one. I know the Deadpool chapter was ~highly~ anticipated, so I hope I gave you all something you enjoyed!
> 
> scoutdee.tumblr.com
> 
> keep washing yo hands, friends

**Author's Note:**

> i just love Peter Parker so much y'all
> 
> let me know how you liked it, give me a follow on tumblr if you so choose! sometimes i will take prompts, but no guarantees.
> 
> wahmenitu.tumblr.com


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